


pristine

by chieux



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Self-Hatred, Yearning, fear of intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chieux/pseuds/chieux
Summary: Akira is so full of hope and optimism, able to see the best in everyone. It isn’t unrealistic to imagine that he could compliment Akechi or, worse, praise him. The idea of Akira even using the word ‘good’ in response to something Akechi has done is enough to turn his breathing heavy. However, his mind is still against him, rambling thoughts louder than those of arousal.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	pristine

**Author's Note:**

> don't you like me for me? [is there any better feeling than coming clean?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7tnTucP1UM)
> 
> i started writing this over 3 years, so i lost the prompt. but it was along the lines of akechi masturbating over akira with lots of angst. so this is technically written for the kinkmeme, i just... need to find where…

Despite the appearance he likes to present to the public, Akechi’s apartment is a far cry from that. 

On first appearances it’s sleek and modern, furnished to be the epitome of modern palatability. What could be mistaken as cleanliness is soon realized to be emptiness--there’s a sterile atmosphere, devoid of personality. Akechi has no photos, because who would memorialize his existence into a physical form? Certainly not his blood family, let alone the foster homes he’s drifted to and from as nothing more than a ghost. Despite growing up in a traditional family, there’s no shrine, as disdain for offspring is a generational affair. Or at least, it’s the truth he writes for himself. The reality is two fold. Firstly, Akechi cares little for traditions or Gods--they have turned their backs on him and he has done the same. Secondly, and never admitted, he fears that this atheism may be entirely wrong; he cannot even tempt the scorn of his mother’s spirit, unsure his heart would be able to bear it. 

All in all, it’s a practical building that offers little respite or comfort. It meets basic needs, but never touches on the psychological. Yet, that’s the need he craves to fulfil the most. The emptiness of his apartment only fuels Akechi’s distortions further. His body hums with energy, each nerve and muscle tensed as if something is about to happen. Hypervigilance has been ingrained into him since childhood, from warily waiting for his mother in bathhouses to sizing up other throwaway children--forever too scrawny and feminine to infiltrate the hierarchy. Akechi lives in the assumption that this constant need to fight will dull as he matures and stabilizes, but his body never waivers in its unrelenting need to be doing something. Anything. Once he reaches his goal, will he finally find tolerance with himself? 

It’s a question he’ll soon find the answer to, almost giddy from the anticipation of crushing his father beneath him. Everything will be soothed soon enough, it just requires a little more patience. Yet, patience seems to be alluding him tonight. His mind is jumping from one train of thought to the next. It gives Akechi the illusion of control, as if he’s deciding to think of many things at once--as if any human would choose to be debilitated by stimulation. Yet, Akechi sits back against the couch as he pretends he has any intention of reading the papers sprawled in front of him. Typically, there is nothing to stop him from throwing his all into work--whether it be age appropriate or not--because his entire being revolves around becoming the best at what he does. However, recently it's been difficult to keep his mind on track. So much is happening in Sae’s palace, which is the kind of challenge he’s been craving for months. Akechi is bored of creating his own mysteries and dramas to solve; it’s much more exciting to triumph over another’s. More than that, he’s able to see where problems will open up later down the line and circumvent them. He hums with anticipation again, but this time it's from the inevitable drama of his reveal of the spare casino card tucked into his clothes.

He also wonders how much Akira knows. Is he aware that Akechi has been orchestrating his own hand against the house? Or is he so caught up in the flair of being Joker that he fails to notice Akechi slip off at times? It’s almost a disappointment to think that he’s getting away with this. How can his final hurdle, his ultimate rival, be so underwhelming? He tries to recall any indication he can think of, but so much happens in the palace that it all starts to blur. Akira doesn’t necessarily say a lot, but his face is quite expressive. Their eyes often cross one another, little flickers that fuel the flame of hatred in Akechi’s heart. How dare the man act so clueless and open around his future murderer. Of course, Akechi doesn’t want to be seen as a threat, considering it would ruin his plans. However, it does outrage him that his prestige and capabilities aren’t taken seriously either, imagining just how easy it would be to turn on Akira within the palace. There’s all manner of things he could do to make the man acknowledge him, ranging from playful through to inhumane. 

Really, it wouldn’t be too hard to overwhelm Akira at all. The man is indeed strong, but his personas all seem generic. No one can do what Akechi can do and he’s still so excited to show them. Ryuji, Ann and Haru seem like they’d barely grasp what was happening--but Makoto, Morgana and Akira… those would be interesting reactions. In all honesty, he barely cares for the first two anyway; they have very little use outside of their intelligence. Their looks of shock and betrayal can’t even materialize in his mind, because it’s not about _them_. It’s Akira. He wants to shake the man to his core and get some kind of reaction that’s more committal than the nods and watchful gazes he’s currently achieving. He wants to break Akira’s saviour complex by defying all expectations. He’s no one’s fool. If Akira is going to insist on intervening in an issue that started before the man was even born, then Akechi will crush him to a decisive victory. The paperwork is nothing but a blur in the corner of his eye as he lets his imagination muse on all the ways he can do this. 

Instead, Akechi’s thoughts surprise him. He knows what his subconscious is capable of--he knows what his own hands are capable of. He expects his imagination to capture the worst of himself, gathering up all the violence and blood into one fantasy. He wants to be evil. He wants to be emotionless. Yet, his mind seems to fight against him. Instead of strangling Akira, or smashing his face against a wall or even just a clean, plainless shot, he just focuses on the man’s being. Would Akira really look at Akechi with hatred? Or would he view the detective as another problem to fix? At a first glance, Akira is nothing special. He doesn’t wear his height with the same confidence that Akechi does, so he comes off a little gangly. His hair is a crime and his glasses only make the situation worse. Everything about him is so unassuming--even his clothes look like they’ve been copied from a Uniqlo display. 

Akechi knows better than that though. He knows there’s a whole world lurking underneath those casual mannerisms and quiet responses. Akira is as insular as Akechi. Yet, they’re insular in different ways. Akira seems to be quiet in order to understand, creating bridges to lead him to others. Akechi is quiet in order to understand, controlling and conquering through information. He knows that he’s rotten, but it feels like he’s earned that right. What has Akira been through that could ever compare to Akechi’s pain? To his mother’s pain? The world has never given Akechi a second glance and he has every intention of reciprocating that notion. Yet, he does often second glance Akira. Yes, it’s somewhat inherent when his goal is to gather the information needed to infiltrate the Phantom Thieves, but not all of it is. What does he gain from watching Akira stir curry? There’s no secret mixing technique, yet Akechi always watches. His eyes naturally rest on Akira’s form, as if the man has his own gravity. In some ways he does, Akechi can admit that. Akira is the type of person who easily inflates the ego of others’. It feels validating to be acknowledged by the man, despite the fact he shouldn’t care about being noticed by a man who has very little accomplished or achieved. Akechi knows all about Akira’s reputation as a delinquent. They’ve both been written off by society. They’re both using different masks to claw back a position for themselves. 

Can Akira feel that connection too? 

_What connection_ , Akechi snaps at himself. He’s so incredulous that the words almost cut out into the coldness of his apartment, rather than the flourishing motion picture happening within his mind. Objectively, Akira knows very little of Akechi’s background. Everything he does know is due to Akechi telling him. The coldness of the apartment is back as Akechi groans with embarrassment, childishly pressing his forehead against the couch as if it could relieve the muscles of his brain cringing in despair. He’s casually told Akira about so many of the things that keep him awake at night. Even now, his mother’s prostitution weighs heavily on his chest. How is he supposed to live with the knowledge his existence forced her hand into pariahism? In all honesty, he can’t. Whatever the truth of how she viewed him, Akechi sees her as the ultimate martyr. He adores her. Worships her. He can’t justify her suffering with his own existence, so he overshares with Akira instead, hoping the man will justify it for him. 

Akira is so full of hope and optimism, able to see the best in everyone. It isn’t unrealistic to imagine that he could compliment Akechi or, worse, praise him. The idea of Akira even using the word ‘good’ in response to something Akechi has done is enough to turn his breathing heavy. However, his mind is still against him, rambling thoughts louder than those of arousal. Deep down, he knows there are no real reasons for Akira to say such things--the man is going to hate him--and justifiably so. Akechi is sabotaging all this in order to reach his ultimate outcome. The idea of Akira validating him is tantalizing, but does it compare to the idea of winning against his father? Surely nothing will feel better than that, but right now it seems nothing feels worse than knowing what he has to lose in the process. However, he technically has nothing already--these ideas of Akira are all just within his own mind, sure that the man must have nice normal fantasies about soft, boring girls, with no detective to be found.

Deciding to brush off hyper-realism, Akechi lets himself indulge in the idea that Akira would find some reason to want him. Objectively, he is attractive. He works extremely hard to keep himself desirable, needing to be adored by anyone who comes into contact with him. The only exception to this is his hair, which has since grown too long to pass off as idol-inspired. The more it falls similar to the way his mother’s once did, the harder Akechi finds it to return to a more masculine style. Surely, if Akira is as observant as Akechi wants him to be, the man must notice the strange juxtaposition. Not that the other man has any room to talk on hair, but perhaps that lends well to the idea that he could enjoy longer hair on a male. He entertains the idea of fingers in his hair, gently running down the strands and pushing stray ones from his face. Akechi wants to want a pull. Rough. A power struggle that he wins; all he’s given is more fantasies of Akira pressing kisses to his hairline. It’s as awful as it is enthralling, head jerking away from the intimacy while his heart races from this constructed tenderness. 

Akechi swallows harshly as he tries to get control over himself again, struggling against the way his fantasies always seem to trigger fight or flight. In reality, there is no way he could allow Akira to get so close to him. It’s simply impossible. He fears and loathes what he desires the most, constantly locked in a battle where it’s easier to give into the negative. 

He knows that Akira is often watching him. Although ‘watching’ is a pathetic verb to Akechi.

Analyzing.

Scrutinizing. 

_Piercing_. 

The idea of Akira peeling back the layers of his superficial charm and coming face to face with his inner wickedness is the biggest turn on his brain has ever conjured. Akira will see the horror within him and such an exotic, unthinkable thought makes Akechi’s breath catch, shaking in his chest until he exhales it in some quiet semblance of a moan. Akira will hate him. Akira will _abhor_ him, he corrects. Or at least, he tries to focus on all the ways and reasons that Akira will definitely reject him, because that inner voice--the child he can’t seem to kill--is trying to twist his thoughts in another direction. What if Akira accepts him? What if he wants to change him? What if Akira’s unrelenting, unconditional regard for the downtrodden also applies to Akechi? His own mind is an enemy too, hungry for any scrap that can be weaponized against him and Akechi has fed it the most dire meal of hope. 

The imagery of Akira looking at him with resentment morphs into eyes that hold empathy, unwilling to look away from Akechi’s own. He’s offering the stability that Akechi craves, as if to hold the back of his hand out to a stray cat. What if Akira really did touch his face like that? Caressing isn’t a word that has ever left Akechi’s lips, because it seems too adoring and tender for someone like him. Yet, he can paint that expression onto Akira’s face, sighing back against the couch. It’s not just his eyes that make it happen--it’s the small wrinkles in muscles, the gentle title of his eyebrows, the way the direction of his face mirrors Akechi’s. There’s so much intimacy in just one gesture that Akechi almost finishes there and then, gritting his teeth through an exhale as he slows down.

He can see Akira slowing down too, a small glint in his eye where the empathy is laced with amusement. Akira chuckles and indignation rises up in Akechi’s chest; how dare Akira laugh at him, as if he’s less than him, or perhaps he’s been trying to manipulate Akechi the whole time and this is just the tip of the iceberg in how far he can--

\--Akira’s fingers are stroking over his stomach patiently, eyes once again watching with curiosity and fondness, as if to ask ‘what are you thinking about?’. It leads to another unspoken, ‘stop thinking’, which Akechi might be happy to indulge in right now. Of course, this Akira is only able to transparently see Akechi’s thoughts because he _is_ Akechi, but perhaps there is a hint of longing in there. Objectively, it would be awful if Akira could understand him on such a deep level. Ideally… would it be nice? It seems his mind has managed to process wants and ideals that even Akechi can’t quite accept to himself yet, eyebrows furrowing as he strays too far from masturbating and straight back to ruminating. Stop thinking, he repeats more firmly, focusing far more acutely on Akira’s fingertips skimming across his stomach. The man has so many hobbies and jobs that Akechi doubts his fingertips are as soft as his own. The idea that they’re a little calloused captivates him, arching his back as he scratches a little harder to make up for it. 

Akira is cocky and playful, something Akechi finds difficult to replicate on his own. Akechi has wit, but he doesn’t have the natural cheek that accompanies Akira. In truth, his own wit is far more dry and spiteful, intended to belittle and give himself a position of power. Is Akira as mischievous when it comes to sex, doing as he pleases to get a reaction? While Akechi can see the merit in following such a train of thought, it doesn’t seem to fulfil him right now. He doesn’t want to be teased or prodded when everything feels like it’s teetering on a ledge; Akira has to commit to him. His hand--whose hand? It’s getting easier to pretend, almost fooling himself into believing the anatomy of his own hand really has changed--makes short work of the fastening and zippers that always accompany the formality of the trousers he chooses to wear. Maybe Akira could tease him about that. He’s heard the man chuckle enough times to incorporate it into this thought exercise, the sound low and soft as it breaks through Akechi’s laboured breathing. 

He keens against the cushions as Akira finally touches him, trying to decide if his position is one of submission or power. On the one hand, he wants Akira to serve him--to adore him. It is Akechi’s validation that the man will crave. On the other, there is something tantalising about the idea of being at Akira’s mercy. What wonderful intimacy, to beg and crave and know that achieving it is secured. In reality, there is no way Akechi can feel that way about his enemy, but his mind allows him to take artistic liberties. The pace of the hand against him hesitates between fast and slow as he decides what it is he really wants, despite being ashamed of it. The jagged movements are satisfying too, as if taking perverse pleasure in the inability to get any consistent pleasure at all. Eventually, his hand slows as he feels Akira’s hair tickle across his skin, from his cheek to the inside of his throat. Lips soon follow, and Akechi lacks the strength to stop them. He likes the heat, but he likes the murmurs of affection more. The words themselves aren’t quite specific enough, because hearing the real thing would burn too much to be able to bear--like skin rubbed raw, chafing until blood starts to bead. Akechi can handle the general feel of what the words mean, centred around praise and validation. Let there be some goodness, somewhere. The quiet murmuring of Akira’s voice is arousing in its own right too, hand moving with more pressure: more purpose. He’s also aware of the warmth of another body against his own, enveloping him in heat. It crawls up his body in waves, making his breath fall harder as he grounds out the quietest of noises from gritted teeth. His fantasy is shockingly mundane, yet it feels so intense. His hair sticks to his forehead, beads of sweat slowly dripping down his neck. If only it could be followed up with a tongue, perhaps whispering even more sweet nothings against his skin as Akira’s hand slides across him in a decisive motion. 

For all his dramatic flair in reality, Akechi’s undoing is rather insular. He shakes until he’s quivering, eyes shut with teeth gritted even harder than before. His shirt seems to have fallen back down at some point during the process and the sensation of wet cloth against his skin is almost enough to make Akechi retch. His body is flushed red with deep heat, hair sticky against his face as his ears ring over and over again. However, he doesn’t make a noise. He’s too accustomed to living with strangers to feel comfortable enough to do that. In fact, he’s barely indulged in desires throughout his life. He hates that Akira has made him feel something new--something he can’t feel with anyone else. 

He also hates mess.

In the moment of his darkest, deepest desires, the idea of being intimate enough to touch or taste another is erotic--but in the sober, sterile reality of his apartment, it’s disgusting. He can barely stand the sight of himself, let alone someone else. While murder is paltable to him, sexual desire is so awkward. He also has no experience outside of this room, further isolated from the mature, collected persona he’s built for himself. The reality is that there’s plenty about life that Akechi still doesn’t understand, or isn’t comfortable with. Being a sensitive human with needs that could be fulfilled by another is completely foreign to him at this point. It is utterly pathetic and deplorable to be fantasizing about a man who can barely keep track of where Akechi is when he’s ten feet away from him in a palace. It only gets worse when Akechi factors in the plot against Akira too. For all the silence his pleasure brought, drawn out groans of frustration are soon stuttering from his throat, pressing the back of his wrist to his eyes until he sees stars. It doesn’t help in any way, but it is enough to stir him into something--anything--more productive than sitting around and feeding into his existential crisis. Anything that isn’t thinking of baristas, leaders and hope.


End file.
